


Damian: Batman and Son (Re-imagined)

by evangeline333



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman and Robin (Comics), Batman: Son of Batman, DC Universe
Genre: Batman And Robin - Freeform, Batman Son of Batman, Other, Robin Son of Batman - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-02
Updated: 2018-03-02
Packaged: 2019-03-25 20:57:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13842897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evangeline333/pseuds/evangeline333
Summary: 'Father,' the tip of Damian's sword ran slowly across the caped man's neck, the pressure has all the intent to kill and yet was never enough to break the skin, 'I imagined you taller.'AN: Highly based on the first appearance of Damian Wayne in the issue of 'Batman and Son.'





	Damian: Batman and Son (Re-imagined)

  
Inconspicuously, his head tilted towards the driver's seat. Damian's eyes shifted under the blindfold securely placed on his eyes. Ballistic nylon, double stitched with 90% rayon and 10% silver, anti-EM/RF radiation cloth. Impressive, to say the least. Even if he could easily take it off, he let the constraints stay to appease the man whom his mother claimed to be his _father_.

The title came too easily, so natural that it felt—right, in its own way.

His mother, after all, had briefed him extensively and exhaustively about his biological father, both as Batman, and Bruce Wayne. No, not Bruce Wayne. Mother was not much interested in the man behind vigilante crusader. But only a few minutes of searching on the League's connections was all Damian needed to know everything about the billionaire philanthropist playboy of Gotham City. And, of course, _the Batman._   

He scoffed as he remembered the menacing cowl, entirely theatric, the cape, again overly dramatic, and the symbol of a silhouette of a bat on his chest, in case an idiot would not get the reference, perhaps?

Being under his mother's tutelage and Al Ghul's brand of education, Damian had seen his fair share of worse and crazy. A full-grown man with no augmentation or mutation, wearing a costume every night would be on the lowest end of the spectrum, in his book. And after all, he had never expected his biological father to be normal to begin with. Any man who gets the attention of Talia Al Ghul should be nothing if not—exceptional.

 _It is interesting,_ he thought as he continued silently sitting in the passenger's seat of the Batmobile.

Typical of mother, to leave him on irritatingly amusing situations with nothing but clothe on his back and his sword. She gave him one statement and one statement alone before ushering him to follow his father. He clicked his tongue. He had stopped questioning every and all of his mother's actions at age four, he'd rather not start now. But this time, he could sense something momentous.

To study and learn from his father, the boy can't help the smirk that works on his lips.

Damian had proven himself worthy of the heir of grandfather and had received his mother's approval. Should it not only be natural to have father's too?

 

* * *

"You can open your eyes," Damian felt the tension on his blindfold loosen and finally saw the scene before him, "We're here. This is my cave," father continued and the older man made a poor show not to mix the pride in his voice.

Granted, Damian would have quipped a comment or two about the lack of utility of space, but the boy held back, still trying to capture the overall inexistent layout of the place. A looming dinosaur on one end, a joker card hanging from the ceiling, and the " _toys_ " for lack of better term to use on his father's gadgets. Months of studying the Bat meant he has garnered data and information that needed only a few seconds of cross-referencing.

By the time the boy had already devised five escape routes, ten to infiltrate and another six methods to disable their alarms and servers (the ones visible were boringly modeled around Wayne Tech), the man in the cowl had already finished his topic about "his new home."

Damian was too preoccupied that before the boy could act, his father was already kneeling in front of him with two firm hands placed on his small shoulders. The gap on their size had never been more evident at that moment. The gauntlets precariously resting on Damian had even covered up to his collarbone.

One simple maneuver and it was enough to break bones.

The image put alarm bells on the young assassin's head but he stifled the urge to retreat. Doing so would mean he saw Batman as a threat, and that would defeat the purpose of why he was here.

Then in one breath, his father offhandedly gave him a role to play with, and orders to obey.

"If you intend to stay with me, we'll put that training to good use in the fight against crime," he heard him announced loud and clear and Damian did not appreciate it.

But when he looked up, in a split second, Damian finally felt that he was face to face with the man, Bruce Wayne, and not the vigilante superhero. The few features that can be gleaned from his mask shows clearly a pair of eyes that mirror his own with the only difference in color. Damian had his mother's eyes, he could see that now, however, the ones directed at him looked...disappointed, and full of pity.

_What is that? Why is that?_

Damian snapped, flinging away from the unnatural intimate gesture and those sad looks. "Fight crime? Hah!" _don't make me laugh. What exactly is so great about fighting crime?_ He wanted to retort but clamped his mouth shut as he felt his temper rising again.

There's this growing impulse to drag this person on the ground and wiped that look on his face.

 _How dare him_ mock _me. Pity? What part of me should be pitied?_

Damian tried to change the subject to mundane stuff, things he had no time to think about as he tried to reign in his unjustified indignation. It's been years since he received such condescending stares, and the last time it happened, that very same person had begged with his own eyes as tributes.

"Damian, your mother said she sent you here to learn," Bruce continued without masking the irritation in his voice, emphasizing the word "learn" as if Damian himself was lacking. Two hours flight, thirty-three minutes in Batmobile, and this was the first time Damian heard him said his name. And it felt nothing, it meant nothing.

"My mother was never there for me..." Damian said in an even voice as he tried to remember his mission. He turned his back on his father and continued mouthing off a useless justification for his mother's decisions. Decisions, he once tried to understand. But what is the use?

Before long, he was already having his way at the Batcave. Half of what the boy was saying was lost as to what he was actually thinking. "Is this your new Batmobile?" he callously remarked as he flung the blanket away from what he supposed to be one of his father's pet project.

"It is not finished yet," the boy felt Bruce loom behind him disapprovingly. There was an undeniable finality on those words that simply irritated Damian. It's been such a long time since he heard that tone from anyone, it filled him with such a jarring nostalgia that he was gritting his teeth. "We need to talk," the man added, a clear dismissal of his behavior as childish. Him? Damian Al Ghul Wayne, the rightful heir to League of Assassins, the same ruthless blood of Al Ghul was coursing through his veins...childish?

They might be of blood, but they have not met more than a day ago, and the man has the gall to use a high handed tone as if he knew him. But when Damian saw that unwavering stare of his father, he had enough.

And with this range, it was more than enough.

"Fight me!" Damian almost growled and leaped at the man, grabbing the chance to lash out. He hated how it sounded shrill on his ten-year-old voice when the challenge was an honest duel with his life on the line.

"Don't be ridiculous," a simple backstep was all it took to counter his kick. _He had good reflexes,_ Damian thought. And when Damian's jab connected, he knew the older man had enough brawn to overpower him, and yet his father pulled back and had even stubbornly refused to draw weapon.

_Why?_

"Show me respect and fight!" he shouted, going low and landed a solid one on Bruce's stomach.

"You're good...but," _was that a compliment, funny how it sounded sarcastic_. Damian was too busy figuring out how to take Batman down that the next statement was drowned in his anger. And just as Damian was trying to calm himself, it was followed by words he had heard all his life, "you're not good enough."

 _You're not good enough._  Ra's Al Ghul used to say that. And he had made sure all his life that he would be immune to such remarks, and yet... _damn it._

Damian continued his assault.

  

* * *

"My weekend in the mountains was pretty uneventful," all of a sudden, a stranger's voice cut through their duel. Cheerful, nonchalant words without a hint of hostility, echoed throughout the cave. And there standing a few boulders away from them was an equally ridiculously, albeit less monochrome, dressed masked teen, "What did I miss?"

"It gets worse," Damian muttered under his breathe, as he spied the young man behind his father.

"Robin. I'd like you to meet Damian," the relief of his father was too obvious, it was stuck ringing in his ears. "He'll be staying for awhile."

 _So this is the third Robin._  Timothy Jackson Drake. Instantly, a list of background checks clicked on his mind as he retrieved his brass knuckles back under his glove.

Drake walked closer, all smiles and friendliness. From where he stood, Damian already found the intruder insufferable. "Hey, how are you?" Robin asked while giving a knowing look at his father as if saying, _"again? You've brought another lost boy, somewhere?"_

Damian could almost hear Bruce sigh as an answer.

_This is wrong. What is wrong with this man? Why is he not protecting father? Aren't I obviously trying to kill Batman, so then why is he simply standing there on a sideline?_

Damian's gaze moved up and down on the newcomer. The will to fight left his small body in tension. The exchange of blows now seemed to have been discounted as nothing more than a "ridiculous" with no one taking his challenge seriously.

On instincts, he studied Robin meticulously and ended up staring at Tim's outstretched hand in deep thought. The fourteen-year-old had his shoulders slouched, stance relaxed, feet unbalanced...too many openings, too many weaknesses to exploit, and not enough vigilance. A liability. _And this adopted prepubescent runt is supposed to be the partner to father? This "thing" was what father deemed to be "good enough" to stand at his side? Preposterous._

"Umm," the teen added, his extended hand awkwardly kept hanging in midair, "here in my world, we call this gesture a handshake..."

"Don't patronize me or I'll break your face," it was not a warning, it's a statement. A threat this Robin should take heed if he had a functioning brain.

"Enough! Alfred will help you unpack," _that tone again. What is with these people?_ 'It's been a long and difficult journey. You should get some rest.'

"Don't tell me what I should do!" Damian declared with as much authority since he had learned his destiny. And yet, why is no one listening to him? He had been used to people hanging over to his every word, his every utterance the same weight as mother, and just as revered as grandfather, and yet these people can't seem to take anything he says seriously. It was exasperating! "Mother let me do what I want!" he added sharply before he could stop himself, and Damian knew all too well how petty and petulant it sounded that he cursed inwardly.

"Things are different here," his father made his ultimatum, and for all its worth, he has to agree. Things are very different. Nothing seems to work on common sense.

Bruce repeated his command. Before he could say anything more, Damian walked out bitterly. And with the old butler following behind his heels, muttering some servile perfunctory sentiments, Damian finally left off the curse that was stuck in his throat.

 

* * *

This is aggravating. _What did I do wrong?_

Damian looked at his surrounding, the soft four-posted bed, the nightstand with its lamps and vases that would not be out of place on any museum or art gallery, and an entertainment set immaturely designed for underdeveloped youth. He was standing at a table, stubbornly refusing to take a seat with a plate of roasted pheasant, grilled potatoes, and rigatello cheese placed in front of him, and a promise for more from a butler, named "Alfred" who was content to stand guard behind Damian.

With the way the butler was looking down on him, Damian won't be surprised if the man was contemplating whether he had seen enough of civilization to know how to use a fork and a spoon.

He had dined with princes, and broke bread with sultans and oil magnates alike. This home-cooked fine dining was a joke in comparison. Add the room's obvious modern youthful exterior made him heavily feel like they were gravely treating him as a kid.

 _Pathetic._ The boy returned the servant's scrutinizing stare, equally, and frowned at everything the butler and this room represented.

Comfort. Silence. Safety. With no one attempting at his life for half the night.

_How is this supposed to educate me?_

Comfort breeds complacency. Silence is suspicious. Safety is an illusion. Unless it was taken by your very own hands, one should question all. And not once did Damian had felt this emptiness to his surroundings that it creeps to his skin. Instead of helping him rest, it simply made his guard on so high alert that it was putting him on edge.

"Pennyworth, isn't it?" Damian said. Loathingly, even at his full height, he could only reach up to the servant's pristine white waistcoat.

"How may I serve you?" Alfred Pennyworth, butler to Bruce Wayne and his appointed babysitter, said courteously. Too courteously, it was almost an insult.

"I want my sword," Damian said, dragging the words as he picked up the butter knife and twirled it expertly between his fingers. If their form of torture was to bore him to death, then they are gaining grounds.

"It is in my opinion that children should stay away from sharp objects," Damian raised an eyebrow, he would have added how contradictory that was when his father had a literal line of boys armed, but the butler was quick to add, "Awfully true to those reared to maim and kill, young sir."

The boy scoffed, "An unsolicited opinion from a servant. Father's management of his properties must be crippling to hire one of you."

"I was not hired by Master Bruce."

"You must have come with the inheritance then. Tell me, butler, exactly how am I expected to train without a weapon?" Damian clicked his tongue, "Unless father wants me to be creative, that is." The boy threw the knife across the room and struck, base deep, at a bust of a historical figurehead he would not waste time to name. The rebuke was plastered all over the old man's expression.

"Yes, the arts of silver cutlery, impressive, if not extravagant," he shook his head and added monotonously, "If I may, Master Damian, if you wish to train, a gym had been installed within this room," and the butler gestured towards a punching bag hanging beside the window.

Damian frowned, "you meant these decorations?" he strode towards the punching bag and started testing the boxing equipment—with _test_ , he meant beating the bag with all the temper of a grade schooler. The restraints rattled like trinket.

"I prefer the cave—somewhere I could break things," he exclaimed.

"A flair you seem to share with Master Timothy, no doubt."

"To compare me to a future road-kill, you must have a death wish, Pennyworth," Damian made a series of high kicks and jabs at the thing as an example. Despite his efforts to be menacing, the bag proved to be well-made and sturdy, and the only reaction he got was the old man's mouth twitching.

Still, the butler must have sensed that his concentration was elsewhere and mechanically offered the boy a towel. The motion seemed to have been practiced so many times that Damian could see the moment it dawned on the old man what he just did. That was, until his usual cold professionalism sets in once more.

Damian shrugged it off but did not refuse the towel.

"I also require a laptop, and a working net access, get to it, or do you need to demonstrate to me again how useless you are?" Damian demanded, taking care to make his voice as sullen and testy as he could.

The old man's calm facade seemed to crack.

To his defense, Damian was patient enough to let the old man pester him with more than the adequate amount of lectures which included a full explanation (with footnotes) about the stately Wayne Manor's rules on how not to raise a budding tyrant.

Satisfied he had the butler distracted, Damian scrutinized the plan again on his head while trying to work out his evening session without damaging any more properties.

It was careless of his father and that sorry excuse of a Robin to discuss a case within his earshot. They might not know that he could hear exceptionally well, but that was still unacceptable if they would prioritize security. Though standing for a lapse of time at the door long after the butler had closed and entered the passkey might have been unsafe, still, he had deemed it as a necessary risk.

And Damian found his eavesdropping to be fruitful.

He doesn't care if they talk behind his back. Though he can't help but frown at his father's supposedly obligatory "love and respect" due to their filial relations. How archaic. The lip service on his behalf, that, he could also disregard.

If he needed to prove his worth, then there was only one way to prove it. _How was it again? Vigilante work, is it not? Being a hero? Would that be too hard? The city is small, and there seems to be no end to criminals. Maybe a few initiative on my part wouldn't be too bad._

And he had to thank Drake for giving him that initiative. " _Spook". "Blackgate Prison"._

Now if only he could get a hold of more information and his sword.

Just to make sure, Damian continued to torment the servant and made an extra effort to his role as the demon spawn they all seem to equate him with.

"Why can't I get a laptop!?" Damian yelled once more, with his fist leaving a deep impression on the bag.

Just as he expected, Bruce came barging to the room.

At the sight of his father, Damian can't help but recall those shadowed eyes that seem to bear down on him. This time—it was filled with regret.

"He's all yours, sir," Pennyworth dragged his exhausted body towards the door, "My tolerance for colorful insults is wearing a little thin, I"m afraid."

 _Perfect,_ he thought derisively, "What have you done to my sword? Where are we?" the boy asked, straining his ears at the sounds of Pennyworth typing the key pass, while strategically spying at his peripherals as the butler made his way out of their father-and-son talk.

_And while we're at it, why not torment father, too?_

"This is part of my home, where I grew up. And you'll get a computer and the sword when I decide it's safe," Bruce, still in his Batman suit, declared, "I still don't know much about you, Damian."

 _Then let me rectify that, for one thing_ , "I hate it here!" Damian complained, not dropping the act.

"Too bad. You'll still be staying until we figure out what you mother's up to," Damian opened his mouth to say something, but his father unceremoniously advised, "you should eat."

His mood dropped, which seemed to be the norm whenever he attempted to talk to his father, "Eat? You call this food?!" Damian flung the plate and the sound of breaking porcelain was grating.

"It's actually pretty good...when you don't mix it with the wallpaper," just hearing his father talk made Damian lose his calm. Somehow, the act became reality with every punctuation from his father pushing his displeasure.

Complaisant, disdainful...what exactly does...

"I suggest you rest."

"Rest". This was the second time he had ordered Damian to rest. As if his father was shooing a cat, or any domestic animal, out of his way. A burden he wanted to be tucked away to bed and out of sight.

Something gave way inside Damian. The fury came like hot metal searing him into a numbness that he simply blurted out his anger unthinkingly.

"I've been sent here against my will!"

Damian didn't choose to be here. But he is. Now. Here. And the first thing his father wanted was to play "house" and leave him with a bumbling servant who has no sense to heed orders, and consequently preserve his own life!

"You can't make me do anything I don't want to do!"

His father won't even test him. Won't even give him merit. Or a trial to show what he was capable of! And he wanted Damian to call it a night?

He's still not finished with his outburst, when his father bellowed, "Enough!"

The fires fueling his emotions ebbed just as instantly when he saw his father's unreadable expression.

Batman had mastered intimidation to perfection and he seemed to have no qualms to unleash all of it to his son, "You dishonor your sensei with this loss of composure! Your rage is born of fear and is unbefitting in a student of martial arts!"

The older man stepped closer, the dark cape cast a shadow as dark as the deepest of abyss, and the boy didn't realize that his body has reeled back until he felt the corner of the table pressing from behind. The threat from those eyes was real that Damian could feel the sweat forming in the palm of his hand.

"You'll be given opportunities to prove yourself to me. Until then, Boy...Patience is a virtue!"

Damian gulped. He could feel goosebumps from his spine.

"Yes, yes father" he repeated his answer automatically, a natural response only his mother could pull out of him.

When he raised his eyes once more, his father was already gone. And he heard the unmistakeable locking mechanism of the door, shutting him in, indefinitely.

 

* * *

He paced the room. The butter knife he had retrieved a while ago was now tight in his grip.

 _Nothing changed,_  the boy thought while replaying the scenes with his father. If he had to take his father's words into consideration then that meant he was on the right track.

And Damian, of course, had drawn only one conclusion, it was a challenge.

He must proceed with the plan.

With that in mind, Damian took a deep breath and shifted on his seat in front of the television. A number of the latest playing consoles were sprawled on his feet and an audio system at one end. He took on the remote control and started clicking away, like a person going over his groceries.

He waited and skipped a few news channel.

Gotham's cable reception apparently was filled by hourly crime reports of the mean and the gritty and accentuated with base gossips and distasteful luxury.

But even so, Damian would find himself pausing a few seconds more whenever a channel would feature Batman. He had to admit, seeing things on a screen was different from seeing it in person.

He had watched and rewatched his father on footages going on nights on end, with his vigilante works, and it does not take half a brain to know that Batman was out there doing just that.

Despite their bouts, Damian was—is "excited" the correct word for it?

In fact, the first time he saw his father's nightly escapades, under the supervision of his mother of course, he initially found it...cool. A man dressed as a bat, stalking the shadows for justice, ah yes, he would be taken to his grave before he would confess such thoughts.

He glanced at the mess of his dinner still left untouched and sneered.

Another chess piece.

It would take a miracle for that old man NOT to came checking up on him. The butler might not act like a servant, but Damian can recognize the pride in which Pennyworth carries himself as a caretaker of the Wayne family.

He was surprised at the confidence he had at the butler, but he was sure Pennyworth would definitely clean up after him and for that, he had Damian's regards if nothing else.

After a while, the boy found himself lost in his own thoughts. The changing visage of the monitor toss dancing lights on his face. The frown was gone and despite the intense look on his hazel eyes, Damian had looked exactly like any harmless innocent child lounging lazily in front of a screen.

But all of it changed when he saw his target. The assassin's mind instantly took over as his whole body became taut with precise sharpness drilled to him from countless training.

_Spook._

It took considerable restraint on Damian's part not to roll his eyes. Questionable aesthetic both on the criminal name and on his wardrobe. Such a small fry was not even a blip on his radar when his data consisted of international threats and contingencies. He sighed when the news anchor zoomed in to show the hostage-taking. Granted even the minions had it bad. Blanket with cut holes for eyes? What a cheap preference only fitting for children stories.

_Oh, how he would just fit right in._

With the name and face of his mission acquired, and the butler's timely, unmistakable, British drawl announcing his own intrusion, Damian took off the towel from his shoulders and silently slipped behind the door.

"Now, let's hunt," he whispered to himself.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was prompted by the scene of Damian saying how they don't even trust each other and Bruce replying that it was how they don't understand each other. Rereading the comics after all the new releases of DC made me saw a lot of insights and possible excuses for the kid and it just struck me if, what if, Damian was simply a misunderstood kid, from the beginning? And well just kinda re-imagined all that what might probably have happened in the comics. 
> 
> It was too fun not to share :'] (if this would be considered as violative of DC's copyright, please tell me and I'll pull this down, thanks!)


End file.
